The Serpent's Redemption // DRAMIONE

The isolation stretched into an agonizing month. At first, he tried to maintain some semblance of dignity, pacing his small room and muttering under his breath, determined not to let the loneliness get to him. But as the days bled into weeks, his resolve crumbled.

The silence was unbearable. It seeped into his bones, turning every second into a torment. He shouted insults at the empty walls, his voice echoing in the void. Every venomous word he could muster, every slur he'd ever heard, every creative string of profanity became his arsenal. He screamed at Granger, imagining her smug face as she orchestrated his misery. He cursed her tenacity, her brilliance, her maddening ability to get under his skin.

"Granger, you insufferable know-it-all!" he roared to the empty room. "I hope you're enjoying this! Rotting in here is exactly what you wanted, isn't it?"

He turned his fury to his mother next. "Narcissa Malfoy, Lady of Ice and Grace! You couldn't even keep me out of this mess! What good is all your scheming now?"

But it didn't stop there. His anger twisted inward, and soon he was cursing himself, his choices, his cowardice. "Stupid, bloody idiot," he muttered, his voice breaking. "Could've had a normal life. Could've walked away from all of it. But no, you had to stay loyal to a sinking ship."

He slumped against the wall, his head in his hands, his chest heaving. "I hate this. I hate all of it. I hate me."

When words failed him, he resorted to yelling nonsensical sounds just to fill the silence. He hurled his shoes against the walls, tore the sheets off the bed, and paced until his legs ached. Anything to break the oppressive monotony.

But the worst part? He couldn't stop thinking about her. Granger. Her fiery eyes, her sharp tongue, her relentless determination. He hated her... and yet, somehow, she was the only thing keeping him sane. The thought of her face—smirking, challenging him—was both infuriating and oddly comforting. She was the only tether he had to the outside world, even if it was just in his imagination.

By the end of the month, he was a mess. His once-pristine appearance had given way to unkempt hair and dark circles under his eyes. His voice was hoarse from shouting, his fists sore from pounding the walls. The isolation had stripped him raw, leaving nothing but the barest bones of the man he once was.

And yet, somewhere deep down, he began to wonder. Was this punishment Granger's way of breaking him? Or was it her twisted form of salvation?

•••••••••••••••

He had always been a man of pride. He had grown up believing that his name, his bloodline, his wealth were shields that would protect him from ever having to bow to anyone. But now? Now, he was ready to throw all of that away. Pride was a small price to pay for salvation, and Granger was the only one who could grant it.

The idea of begging, once so abhorrent to him, now seemed like a lifeline. He pictured himself kneeling before her, his head bowed, his hands clasped in supplication. He would apologize for everything—for the insults, the arguments, the arrogance that had kept him from admitting the truth. He would tell her he was sorry, over and over again, until the words lost their meaning but not their weight.

He paced his room, imagining the scene. What would it take? What would she demand of him? Would she make him grovel? Kiss her feet? Swear an oath of loyalty? He would do it. He would do anything she asked. He would strip himself of every last shred of dignity if it meant earning her mercy.

He practiced the words in his mind, over and over, until they became a mantra.

"I'll do whatever you want, Granger. Just—just don't leave me here. Don't shut me out again."

There was a part of him—a small, distant part—that recoiled at the thought of lowering himself to such depths. But that voice was weak now, drowned out by the sheer force of his desperation. This wasn't about pride or power anymore. This was about survival, about clinging to the one thread of hope he had left.

••••••••••••••••

When she finally returned after 44 excruciating days, he was a man unrecognizable. The once-proud Malfoy heir, who had once looked at her with disdain and venom, now dropped to his knees the moment he heard her footsteps in the corridor. He was trembling, his eyes wide and desperate as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

As the door creaked open and she stepped inside, her gaze landed on him with a cool indifference. She looked well-rested, composed, and thoroughly unimpressed by the sight of him kneeling before her.

"Hello, my angel," he breathed, his voice hoarse, the words dripping with a mix of sincerity and desperation.

Her brow arched. "Am I?" she asked flatly, her tone sharp enough to slice through his fragile hope.

"You are," he insisted, his hands clasped in front of him like a sinner at confession. "You are my salvation, my saving angel, my savior, the love of my life, the light of my day—"

She held up a hand to stop him, her expression utterly unimpressed. "We're here to discuss begging, Malfoy, not to witness your attempt at poetic ass-licking."

He flinched at the sharpness of her tone but didn't dare to rise. Instead, he shuffled closer to her on his knees, his pale, thin hands trembling as they hovered in the air between them, unsure if he was even allowed to reach for her.

"I'm serious, Granger," he said, his voice cracking. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll crawl, I'll grovel—I'll kiss the ground you walk on if it pleases you. Just don't leave me alone again."

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she observed him like one might examine an insect under a magnifying glass. "You're pathetic," she said with a sneer, though there was no malice in her voice—just cold amusement.

"I know," he whispered, lowering his head. His shoulders hunched as if her words were a physical weight pressing down on him. "I know I am. But I'll be whatever you need me to be, Granger. Just...please. Let me earn your mercy."

She crossed her arms over her chest and let out a long, theatrical sigh. "You expect me to believe this sudden change of heart? After years of insults, lies, and your inflated sense of superiority, you think I'll just take your word for it?"

He raised his head, his gray eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I'll prove it. However you want. However long it takes. I'll do anything."

"Anything?" she repeated, her lips curling into a smirk that was equal parts dangerous and enticing. "That's a bold claim, Malfoy. I've heard you make a lot of promises before."

"This isn't a promise," he said, his voice raw with desperation. "This is a plea. I can't... I can't do this anymore, Granger. I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm asking for a chance."

She tapped a finger against her chin, feigning deep thought. "A chance, hmm? To do what? Redeem yourself? Prove you're not the cowardly, self-centered, entitled little boy everyone knows you to be?"

His jaw tightened, but he swallowed his pride—what little remained of it—and nodded. "Yes," he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper.

She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the cold floor. She towered over him as he knelt at her feet, his head tilted back to look up at her. "Beg," she said coldly, her gaze piercing. "If you want this so badly, Malfoy, then beg like the sniveling little worm you are."

He didn't hesitate. "Please, Granger," he rasped, his voice cracking as he clasped his hands together in a pathetic gesture of supplication. "Please, let me prove myself to you. I'll do whatever you ask. I'll be whatever you need. Just don't shut me out again."

She leaned down slightly, her face inches from his. Her eyes searched his, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something—something that might have been pity, or perhaps curiosity—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"You're disgusting when you're desperate," she said with a smirk, straightening up. "But I'll admit, it's entertaining to watch."

He said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together as humiliation and hope warred within him.

"Fine," she said at last, her tone dripping with condescension. "You want a chance? You'll have it. But don't think for one second that I'll make this easy for you."

He nodded fervently, relief flooding his features. "Thank you," he whispered, the words catching in his throat. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she said, turning on her heel and heading for the door. She paused in the doorway, glancing back at him with a cold, calculating gaze. "By the time I'm done with you, Malfoy, you'll wish I'd left you to rot in here."

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving him alone once more, but this time, he wasn't consumed by despair. He had a chance—a slim, almost impossible chance—but it was enough to keep him alive. For now.

•••••••••••••••

The next day, when she returned to his makeshift cell, she carried a folder of papers under her arm. The soft click of her heels against the stone floor was the only sound in the corridor, but to him, it was the toll of salvation. He sat up immediately, his sharp ears catching every footstep as they grew closer. When the door swung open, he was already on his feet, his gray eyes wide and fixed on the folder.

She stepped inside with her usual air of authority, her expression unreadable. She let the silence stretch out as she placed the folder on the table in the middle of the room. She glanced at him, her eyebrow raised.

"Malfoy," she began, her voice clipped and professional, "these are your keys to freedom."

His shoulders sagged in visible relief. He stumbled forward a step, his knees nearly buckling as the words sunk in. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking. Then, louder, "Thank you, my angel."

She froze, her eyes narrowing as she fixed him with a glare. "I'm not your angel, Malfoy," she said sharply, her tone slicing through his gratitude like a blade. "Don't mistake this for charity."

He nodded quickly, swallowing hard. "Of course. I didn't mean—" He stopped himself, his words tripping over each other. "What are the conditions?"

She tapped the folder with her finger, her lips curving into a faint, humorless smile. "The conditions are written inside, but since I don't trust you to read without twisting things to your benefit, let me spell them out for you."

His breath hitched, and he nodded again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Yes, of course. I'll do anything," he said quickly, his desperation bleeding into his voice.

She opened the folder with deliberate precision, pulling out a neatly typed document. "The following are the terms of your release," she said, her tone businesslike, as if she were reading out a shopping list.

"First," she began, her gaze fixed on him, "you will be placed under house arrest for six months. During this period, you are not permitted to leave the property under any circumstances. Your movements will be monitored via magical means."

His lips parted, but he didn't dare speak. He only nodded, the tension in his body making him look smaller than his usual imposing figure.

"Second," she continued, her voice steady, "I will be required to visit you every day to check on your well-being. This is non-negotiable, and no, you cannot request another liaison."

His brows furrowed, but he said nothing. The idea of daily visits from her—it was both a lifeline and a curse. He didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified.

"Third," she said, her tone growing sharper, "you will be subjected to a full examination of your memories. A licensed Legilimens will be appointed to verify your claims and ensure no critical information has been omitted."

His stomach twisted, but he nodded again. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Yes. I understand."

She lowered the paper, tilting her head as she studied him. "Do you?" she asked coolly. "Do you really understand what this means, Malfoy? This isn't a free pass to go back to your life of privilege. This is a trial. Every step you take, every word you say, will be scrutinized. If you slip up even once, they'll throw you back in here—and this time, there won't be any conditions for your release."

"I'll do it," he said quickly, his voice trembling. "Whatever it takes. I'll follow every rule, Granger. I swear it."

She snorted softly, shaking her head. "Don't swear to me, Malfoy. Swear to yourself, because I'm not the one you need to impress. You're on your own here."

He opened his mouth to respond, but she raised a hand to stop him. "Sign the papers," she said, sliding them across the table toward him. "Your wand will be temporarily confiscated, and all visits will be monitored. This isn't a negotiation."

He took the quill she offered, his hand shaking as he hovered over the dotted line. He hesitated for only a moment before scrawling his name. The ink glowed faintly as the contract sealed itself with a soft hum of magic.

"It's done," he said, his voice heavy with both relief and resignation.

She picked up the papers and slid them back into the folder, her expression unreadable. "You'll be escorted to your home tomorrow," she said briskly. "Enjoy your last night here. It may be the last time you experience true solitude."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

"Granger," he called, his tone softer now. She paused in the doorway, glancing back at him. "Thank you," he said, his voice trembling with sincerity. "For this. For everything."

Her expression softened for the briefest of moments, but it was gone before he could be sure it was ever there. "Don't thank me yet, Malfoy," she said coldly. "You haven't earned it."

With that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the room, leaving him standing alone. For the first time in weeks, he felt something stir inside him—not hope, exactly, but a faint glimmer of possibility. It was enough to keep him going. For now.

••••••••••••••••

His last night in the cold, sterile confines of the cell was an uneasy cocktail of emotions. It was a strange feeling, knowing that the door that had held him captive for weeks would soon swing open—not to freedom exactly, but to something resembling it. He paced the small room, his footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence, his mind a chaotic whirlwind.

Anxiety clawed at his chest, sharp and relentless. What awaited him on the other side of this? Would the so-called house arrest be a gilded cage, or would it become another layer of torment? And then there was Granger—his self-appointed savior, or perhaps his jailor. Her daily visits, as she'd so icily promised, loomed large in his thoughts. Would she come to berate him, mock him, remind him at every turn of the conditions shackling him? Or—Merlin forbid—would she try to help him? That thought was somehow worse, the idea of her pity cutting deeper than her sharpest insults.

But alongside the anxiety was a glimmer of something he hadn't felt in what seemed like years: hope. Not the grand, sweeping kind that inspired revolutions, but the small, stubborn kind that whispered, You'll wake up somewhere else tomorrow. The very idea of leaving this place, of seeing the outside world again—even if only through the windows of his ancestral home—made his pulse quicken.

He sank onto the narrow cot, his head in his hands. The silence of the cell seemed louder tonight, more oppressive. His thoughts raced, replaying every word Granger had said to him during their last conversation. The conditions of his release were clear, and though they were better than rotting in a Ministry holding cell, they weren't exactly ideal. Six months of house arrest, daily visits, and—he swallowed hard—the invasive process of having his memories examined.

Could he survive it? Could he stand the scrutiny, the judgment? And then there was the matter of his pride, battered though it was. Would he even have any left after six months of Granger dissecting his every move?

He lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling. The cracked stone above him seemed to mock him, a reminder of how far he'd fallen. Once, he had stood in this very building, confident and untouchable, a young man from a powerful family with the world at his feet. And now? Now he was a prisoner, reduced to begging for scraps of freedom from the same person who had been his rival for so many years.

He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. His mind wouldn't stop its relentless churning. Images flickered behind his eyelids—memories of the war, of the choices he'd made, of the people he'd hurt. And then there was Granger, her face sharp and unyielding, her voice cutting through his thoughts like a blade.

"Don't thank me yet, Malfoy. You haven't earned it."

Her words echoed in his mind, a challenge he wasn't sure he could rise to meet. But damn it, he was going to try. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to think of the future—not the bleak, uncertain one that had loomed over him since the war, but one where he might finally have a chance to prove that he wasn't beyond redemption.

The hours dragged on, the cold of the cell seeping into his bones. He alternated between pacing and lying down, unable to find comfort in either. By the time the first faint rays of dawn began to filter through the small, barred window, he was more exhausted than he'd been the night before.

As the light grew stronger, so did his resolve. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it. He had no choice. And as much as he hated to admit it, Granger had thrown him a lifeline, however begrudgingly. Now it was up to him to hold onto it.

He stood by the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps that would signal the start of his new life. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and anticipation. Today, the walls of this cell would no longer confine him. But whether that was a blessing or another kind of curse, only time would tell.